Elysian Fields
by pohatufan1
Summary: The Elysian Fields was once a beautiful land where the heroes of all the old mythologies could rest in the afterlife. But when a cosmic crisis scatters these heroes across the universe, the gods from their pantheons must embark on a quest to return them.
1. The Manumission

**Chapter One – The Manumission**

"Hades! How delightful it is to see you, oldest brother! Please, take a seat. Rest yourself. You must be tired from walking all this way."

Zeus waved his hand, and an ornate chair – not as pretty as his own throne, but still quite remarkable – appeared behind the dark form of his brother, who did not choose to take a seat.

There was a few moments' pause. Zeus tried to look welcoming, but he could not conceal his obvious discomfort. Hades stood stone-still, gazing at the other god through the eye-holes of his brass helmet.

"Well; and how are things?" he finally asked.

"They're, uh… They're quite good," Zeus responded.

"How are all the other Olympians doing? How is Hera?"

"Oh, Hera. We haven't talked in the last few years. She's all right, I suppose."

"In the last few years? Did something happen?"

"No." Zeus scratched his head. "We just… don't talk a lot, I suppose. I'm not sure if she enjoys being around me that much."

"I see," Hades said. "And what of my daughter-in-law, Athena?"

"Spending most of her time on Earth at present. She said something about a war. But we've been keeping in touch."

"How are the twins?"

"Quite good. Apollo keeps talking about a new wind instrument he's going to design. And Artemis hasn't had to transform any men into stags for three centuries." He chuckled. Hades didn't join him.

"Ares?"

"If he's to blame for the war that's keeping Athena occupied, I wouldn't be surprised at all. He's been strutting around and smirking incessantly. I'd ground him, but I doubt he'd let himself be grounded." He sighed, shrugged. "Kids. You know? I mean, you can never just get through to them."

Hades simply gave a single nod of the head. And there was silence.

-----

Presently he said, "I assume you must be wondering why I came."

"Well…" Zeus smiled. "Yes, I expect I must."

"There is a matter that has come to my attention. Regarding Tartarus, and the souls that are doomed to remain within."

"Yes?"

"It has occurred to me that some of them are punished far more brutally than they deserve."

Zeus' eyes narrowed. "So? Do you, perhaps, feel that the souls should be exonerated? That Tartarus should be no longer a land of pain and torture? Is that what you wish, Hades?"

Hades laughed. It was a harsh, grating sound. "Little brother, I don't know what's more idiotic: the idea that I might wish that for Tartarus, or the idea that I might need _your _permission to do it."

Zeus was obviously flustered. "Let me remind you, Hades, that I am the king of the Olympian gods. All living things respect me, whether spirit, mortal or god. Not even another Olympian would dare to—"

"Fine; except that by any reasonable criterion, I'm _not _an Olympian god. I never have been, and I never shall be. My domain lies as far from Mount Olympus as the distance from one end of the universe to another. I'm just another god in the Greek pan-theon, that's all. And where _I _live," and here he leaned close to Zeus, "your petty rules mean nothing."

He straightened up again and added, "Besides, no matter how many puny mortals worship you, you're still just my little brother as far as I'm concerned."

"Enough!" Zeus leapt up from his throne, eyes aflame. Thunderstorms abruptly started all over the Earth. "I will not merely sit here and allow myself to be insulted by you. Did you come here seeking battle, brother? For you have provoked me such that I would kill you a hundred times over. You are banished from Mount Olympus. Go now, before I destroy you."

Hades slipped out of sight. Zeus was startled, but at the same time unsurprised. It was a property of Hades' helmet that he could use it to become invisible whenever he liked. A moment later, Hades reappeared at Zeus' side.

"Fair enough," he murmured. "I can see I have gone too far. But allow me to simply tell you what I meant to say about the souls in Tartarus before you invoke my exile."

"Just say it and go."

"Any normal human ought to be condemned to Tartarus. They've earned it just by being human; it's their nature. But there are some who have transcended human nature, and performed such great deeds in their time that they don't deserve the punishment I have had no choice but to give them."

"Name them."

"Muriathlos and Eutolmos," Hades listed. "Sebomai and Archegos and Skene. Agenor and Philoparabolos and all the Botianeira and—"

"Enough!" Zeus said. "I acknowledge your point. The men and women of which you speak redeemed themselves during their stay on the mortal plane. They have not earned their suffering."

"Exactly," Hades replied. "And that is all I wished to bring to your attention."

"Fine. Go, and never come back."

Could it be that Hades smiled a little, as his form faded away into nothing?

-----

After contemplating the words of his older brother for some time, Zeus walked to the opposite end of the room, where a small orb rested on its pedestal. The orb was smooth, cold, and jet-black, blacker than the night sky. There was an indescribable atmosphere of nothingness around it, as though the air surrounding it did not exist at all.

And even Zeus, even the mighty lord of the Olympian gods, could not suppress a shudder as he gently lifted the orb and held it up in the air.

"Now, orb of the Void," he whispered. "Take me to where the stars and the sun do not shine, where the winds do not blow, where there is no land and there is no sea. Take me to nowhere."

And the orb of the Void grew. Before it had been small enough to hold in the palms of Zeus' hands. Soon he found it had grown too large even to carry on his shoul-ders. The orb swelled up, engulfing Zeus' throne room, engulfing his palace, engulfing everything.

Or was it Zeus who was shrinking, growing so tiny that he could pass directly into the orb of the Void?

Zeus did not take time to reflect upon the matter. He was now completely surrounded by darkness, floating in the nothing. And he had a task to attend to.

He had a new plane to create.

He began by tracing a great circle before him with his finger. Where the circle had been, light emerged from the gloom. It was a sun, many millions of miles in diameter; but Zeus had an infinity of void to work with, and he found it easiest to form worlds when he was at his full cosmic size. Thus it was that the sun was only about the size of Zeus himself. He lifted the sun with no difficulty and cast it up into the air, where it hung, shedding its rays.

"For them doth the strength of the sun shine below," Zeus spoke softly.

Then he splayed his fingers and spread his hands across the black expanse. Where his hands went, lush grass appeared. Soon he had formed a vast stretch of grasslands, suspended like a sheet of paper in the void.

"While night all the earth doth overstrow," he said.

He rubbed his hands together and cupped them. He was holding a mountain of tiny red specks, which he flung out across the plains. "In meadows of roses their suburbs lie/Roses all tinged with a crimson dye."

He pulled out a single strand of his hair and clapped it tightly between his hands, then opened them. He was holding a green sphere of leaves. He threw it down upon the grass, and in mid-flight it fragmented into thousands of tiny trees, that spread out across the land in patches of forest. "They are shaded by trees that incense bear/And trees with golden fruit so fair."

He laid his hands flat upon the surface and drew them up, and hundreds of tiny horses emerged from the ground and galloped across the plains. "Some with horses and sports of might."

He uttered a soft note. The sound expanded upon itself and grew into a full song, beautiful and perfect, which echoed across the land and eventually faded away into other songs. "Others in music and draughts delight."

Finally, he drew up clay from the soil and fashioned several tiny shrines, which, kneeling down, he placed in a circle at the center of the fields. Each shrine had a small fire burning within it, and the fires exuded a wonderful scent. "Happiness there grows ever apace/Perfumes are wafted o'er the lovely place/As the incense they strew where the gods' altars are/And the fire that consumes it is seen from afar."

Zeus stood up. "It is done," he said. "Release this plane and its creator from your core, orb of the Void. _Apallakteon._"

And when he had said this word, the darkness churned around him and began to fade. The marble walls and floor of his throne room dimly came into view. Soon he was standing once more with the orb in his hand.

He placed it on its pedestal. The task was done.

He had created the Elysian Fields.

-----

"Are you sure about this, Zeus?"

They had been walking down the twisting tunnels and corridors of dark stone, when Zeus looked at his mother and found that she had stopped.

"I mean, do you really wish to let him go?"

"Yes, O Rheia. Of course I do. Kronos has been imprisoned for millenia. He will have repented for his actions. And none of the Olympian gods are free to guard the Elysian Fields. If I offer Kronos his freedom, he will be happy to accept the responsibility that comes along with it."

Rheia uttered the tiniest of sighs, and Zeus added, "What's wrong, mother? Surely you will be happy to see your husband again?"

Rheia did not have time to say under her breath that nothing could make her less happy, for they rounded a corner and faced the Hecatonchires.

The Hecatonchires were great, hulking humanoids with fifty heads and a hundred arms each. There were three of them, and they stood before the bronze door where Kronos was kept. They were among the children of the first couple, Gaia and Ouranos, and they had sided with the Olympians in the fierce war against the Titans that had marked the beginning of time.

"Greetings to you, Lord Zeus of the thunderclouds," said they. "And greetings to you also, Lady Rheia, mother of the Olympians."

"Briareus. Cottus. Gyges. It is good to see you once more. How is the door?"

"It holds. Our charge has not attempted to break free in several centuries."

"Good," Zeus responded. "But now I'd like you to set him free."

The Hecatonchires looked dumbfounded, and Briareus asked, "But why would you willingly let him go?"

"I have a job that only he can perform right now, I fear."

The Hecatonchires glanced at each other and shrugged. "What your lordship wishes is what we wish as well."

"I'm glad to hear it."

Then the Hecatonchires took the handle to the bronze door and pulled with all their might. Slowly, but surely, the door creaked open. Zeus walked into the dark room beyond, with Rheia following behind.

"My love? …And my son?" a low voice asked.

There sat the shadow form of Kronos. His four wings were crumpled and decrepit, and his hair had grown pure white in the darkness of the cave. He gazed up at them pathetically, but his old pride and anger were quickly returning to him.

"Yes, father. Rheia and I have come to set you free."

"Set me free?" Kronos asked. There was almost a tone of hurt disbelief in his voice. "Why would you do that?"

"I have created a new plane of existence, the Elysian Fields. It is a paradise where the heroes who once suffered in Tartarus can now live in peace and joy. And you are the only one to whom I can entrust custody of the residents."

"Ohoho…" Kronos laughed slowly. "This is a trick, vile son… You plan to kill me…"

"This is not a trick," Zeus said simply, "and I have no such plan."

"But…"

Kronos looked pained.

"Why would you set me free? I ate your brothers and sisters, so long ago. I would have eaten you, too, if Rheia hadn't tricked me. And once you had come back, I brutally attacked you. You defeated me, and imprisoned me here. Why should I suddenly be absolved?"

"You are absolved because I wish it," Zeus said simply. "Now come. We shall journey to Elysium."

But he could not help noticing, as Zeus helped him to his feet and walked him out of the dungeon, that the old god wore a grimace on his face, as though he wanted nothing less than freedom.


	2. The Rage of the Old One

**Chapter Two – The Rage of the Old One**

_How can they do this to me?_

It was a question he had asked himself hundreds of times as the years had gone on.

Kronos still couldn't believe that Zeus had made him watch over this little land. It was cruel. It was ungodly. Kronos had been _evil, _so many millenia ago. He had swallowed Zeus' five older siblings _alive, _by the stars. And he had tried to kill Zeus many times over, during the Titanomachy – that great war that had lasted for ten years. He'd nearly succeeded most of those times, too.

Why had Kronos' forces lost the Titanomachy? His brothers and sisters, the Titans, were all-mighty beings. They should have been able to crush Zeus and Kronos' other offspring flat.

_It was because of the Cyclopes and the Hecatonchires. _Kronos thought that was very likely true. If he had been kinder to his non-Titanic brothers, perhaps the Cyclopes and the Hecatonchires would have joined his side instead of Zeus'. With their aid, Kronos would have wiped the Olympians out. What's more, they would have been able to do it in a day, not dragging the clash out across an entire decade.

Kronos chuckled heartlessly, and mentally corrected himself. "Whole" decade was an oxymoron. With all the time that Kronos had spent locked in Tartarus, a decade felt like a passing moment, to be registered for a tiny time and then brushed off the shoulders in anticipation of the next decade. No, a "whole" decade was definitely an inappropriate choice of words.

And it had been hideous in Tartarus, more atrocious than Kronos could find words to describe. He had been held in that dungeon, pitch-black and more solid than diamonds. He had tried often to break the walls down, but had never made so much as a dent in the unyielding surface.

Worse: though he could not _break _through those walls, he could easily _hear _through them.

He could hear the sufferings of his brothers and sisters, the other Titans, who had bravely gone down in battle with him and been imprisoned in Tartarus as well.

He had known none of them were really in pain; the Titans all shared a physical empathy and could feel each others' wounds, and he felt nothing. But he had heard their screams and sobs, and had taken pain enough from that. They had _imagined _they were being tortured: imagined that flames were licking their skin, and that snow was freezing them alive, and that spikes were slowly driving into their bodies and that monstrous animals were eating them over and over and that they were plunging into bottomless abysses where they fell forever.

And there Kronos had sat, visited by no hallucinations himself, but fully aware that his siblings, whose loyalty to him had been unwavering in the Titanomachy, were doomed to see and hear and feel these horrific illusions forever.

That had been his punishment. Being allowed to retain his senses.

_O my family, your purgatory is naught compared to mine. For while your sufferings are all imagined, mine is real, so real._

Imagined. Illusory. Fictitious. Spurious. Chimerical. That brought him some small amusement.

He flapped his four wings momentarily.

He reflected on his companions. One of his fellow Titans had been Okeanos, the personification of water. Okeanos had had a coolly ominous aura, needing to say or do very little to inspire fear in his enemies.

There had been Hyperion, too, the Titan of observation. Hyperion could see to the ends of the earth, and he told Kronos of the actions of the Olympians during the Titanomachy. With Hyperion's vision, they formed strategies that won them many of the small skirmishes that took place during that decade.

Koios had been the most intelligent of Kronos' siblings, and his guile had been invaluable in the war, as he had provided them with plans and tactics that had nearly guided them to victory many times over. Koios' daughter, Leto, had been equally helpful, for with her power to turn invisible she had been able to walk unseen among the Olympians, and do much that the other Titans could not have managed.

Then there was Atlas, who in stark contrast to Koios was eternally rash and foolhardy. Still, this was to his advantage, as it made him nearly fearless and willing to go through with even the most far-fetched of plans. These, coupled with his mighty strength, had made him a fearsome warrior in the Titanomachy. Rather than being locked away in Tartarus, Atlas had been set to keep the earth aloft, and was forced to bear its weight on his shoulders for eternity.

Those five Titans had been most useful to Kronos in the war, but there were other Titans as well: Thaumas and Iapetos, Mnemosyne and Theia, Epimetheus the idiot and Prometheus the goody-goody, and of course—

He tried to block the thought, keep it out of his mind, but it forced its way in. There was, of course, Rheia.

_That two-timing little _shrew.

Kronos couldn't believe he had ever taken her as his queen. She was a _traitor, _by the stars. A scheming, conniving traitor.

_They always stab you in the back if you give them a chance to, don't they?_

He could still remember the day that Zeus had ambushed him, as he had been hunting, and made him regurgitate Zeus' siblings. He could remember it as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. In all the innumerous centuries he had spent in that loathsome pitch-black dungeon of Tartarus, he had not forgotten that day.

He had not forgotten. And it was all Rheia's fault.

Actually, he had to admit to himself, there were certain steps he could have taken to prevent what had occurred.

When he had mutilated his father Ouranos, the old god's last words had been that he felt only satisfaction, for he knew that one of Kronos' children would overthrow him just as Kronos had overthrown Ouranos. Then Ouranos' head had flown up into the sky, and vanished.

Kronos gnashed his teeth as he dwelled on that memory. _Damn me for a fool! _he thought. It would have been so much easier simply to refrain from bearing children with Rheia, instead of swallowing all his children upon their respective births.

But it all came down to Rheia. If she hadn't betrayed him, swallowing the children would have worked just as well as never having them. It was her fault. It was her fault.

_The worst of it is, they liked her the more for it._

That sickened Kronos most of all. Rheia had shamelessly defected from the side of the Titans, but the Olympians had simply welcomed her with open arms. While the other Titans suffered, she had been free to live as any Olympian god.

The Olympians were so _gullible! _They percieved anyone who did a good deed for their side as being _on _their side. How could they have been so sure Rheia wouldn't play the triple-crosser and aid the Titans in their war? There had been plenty of opportunities.

If one of the Olympians – perhaps Hades, who seemed least-liked of them – had turned on Zeus and helped Kronos win the Titanomachy, the time-god would never have treated Hades as kindly as the Olympians treated Rheia. You couldn't trust traitors, no matter which side they appeared to be helping. Kronos would probably have spared Hades' life, and let him walk free; and that was all. For the Olympians to deal with Rheia in a kindlier way only proved their ineptitude. To think that _these _were the gods Kronos and his siblings had lost to!

And now.

By the stars, and now.

Now Zeus and Rheia had come back to Kronos. They had freed him.

He decided it was a matter of guilt. Zeus clearly knew that the Olympian gods were not fit to rule, and regretted that he had imprisoned his father in this way. He had released Kronos from the dungeon in Tartarus as a gesture of apology.

But that wasn't all Zeus had done.

(That, in itself, would have been torture enough; for now, not only was Kronos not to be tortured, but he was even allowed to see the light of day and breathe fresh air again – while his companions continued to bawl and writhe beneath the earth! The lack of suffering had been bad enough; the pleasures of the overworld were too much to bear. It would have been a joyous occasion if the other Titans had been freed as well. But Zeus had failed to liberate them, either out of malice or simply because he had forgotten about them… and both reasons were equally spiteful in Kronos' eyes.)

That wasn't all Zeus had done. He had also made Kronos the keeper of the Elysian Fields.

This wasn't apologetic. It was insulting.

_Did he really think I _wanted _to be in charge of a land of little humans who call themselves heroes? Did he think that was a fair price for being returned to the overworld?_

He had been mistaken. More than that. It was an act of sheer idiocy, bordering on lunacy, and breaching every last whittle of honor Kronos had still been able to cling to.

Kronos had been able to bear it for a half-dozen years or so. There was much to see in the overworld, and despite his rage, he was able to distract himself by simply taking in these surroundings, familiar and yet nearly forgotten in his millenia of absence.

But there was only so much to see. And the Old One's patience had run thin.

It was the day of Kronos' revenge.

-----

He took up his sickle, the very same weapon with which he had maimed Ouranos, and flew with it to the sky.

He could see all of Elysium from here: all the sickeningly pretty meadows and hills and forests. And he could see all the humans that lived in this realm.

"Hear me, vermin!" he cried out, and his voice echoed from one end of the Elysian Fields to the other. "Hear me, filth of filth! Hear me, wretched swine! Your time in this country is ended. I abdicate my throne. You are exiled from Elysium. May each of you find his ultimate punishment, wherever he may land."

With these words, Kronos raised the sickle above his head and slashed downward.

The heroes below surely thought it was impossible. The sickle had gone through nothing but air, but it had created a rip in the sky. Beyond the rip, a swirling mass of chaos churned and seethed. As Kronos dragged the sickle across the atmosphere above the Elysian Fields, the rip rapidly grew wider and wider.

Then, as Kronos' face split in a horrifying grin, the chaos emitted black beams that sailed down to earth and pulled the heroes through the rip. They screamed and beat at the smoke-like gas that was, inexplicably, carrying them up, but it was to no avail.

When all the heroes had been pulled in, the rip sealed up and was gone. Kronos sheathed his sickle and spoke.

"I had owed you a favor for several years, Zeus my son. Now I have repaid it."

A moment later, the Elsyian Fields were empty once more, as they had been when Zeus had first shaped them.


	3. At Olympus' Gate

**Chapter Three – At Olympus' Gate**

There is a mountain, whose peak is so high up that it appears to stretch upwards into the sky for infinity.

This is an illusion. The mountain is indeed finite. However, it can certainly be said that the mountain transcends the limits of the plane on which it resides. Were a human (though it is not given to humans to dwell in this place) to scale the extent of the mountain, and reach the summit, they would find themselves no longer within their own dimension.

It is a misty, shimmering realm that lies at the top of the mountain. The sky there is forever bright, though no sun appears in the sky. Hills of many heights form creases upon the land. The rivers run pure, and fresh, and their water is sweeter than honey. Yet, though the rivers are unfrozen, there is a thin layer of snow across the entire realm. The leaves of the trees are silver-hued. Their berries produce a delicious nectar, and whoever drinks it will become immortal.

Some call this place heaven. Some call other places heaven.

But all call this place Olympus.

Here is the home of the gods to whom the Greeks and Romans paid hommage. They dwell in their palaces upon the hills. Olympus is the abode of Zeus, of Hera, of Apollo and of Artemis, and of all the rest.

It is a land deemed by the Greeks and Romans to be perfect.

But all is not perfect within Olympus, not now.

-----

The face of the Olympian was redder than the flames of Tartarus. Wrath, pure and unmoderated, was expressed in every aspect of his being. His aura painted the air with fury. As he shouted, sparks bounced across the room, flickered, and vanished.

"You are _lying_, daughter!"

His daughter stood tall and still. The passive lack of motion was precisely as effective as if she had shouted back at him. She wore a golden helmet and armor, covered in white robes. She bore a spear in one hand, and upon the opposite shoulder, an owl was perched. Her stance was composed, majestic, and powerful.

"I do not tell lies, my father," she spoke in a half-whisper.

Stilled by her words, the older god breathed deeply, calming himself. He regretted, now, that he had flown into a rage. "I apologize, Athene," he murmured. "But surely there must be some…?"

"There has been no mistake, father," Athene said coolly. "Kronos has abdicated his position."

"But how could that be?" Zeus asked, at a loss. "I did him a favor. I liberated him from his prison, so long ago… I gave him honor. How could he turn his back on that?"

"Perhaps he did not wish for honor," Athene replied. "Perhaps he did not wish for justice. There are many whose minds work that way, my father. Once you have bested them, they will accept no kindness from you."

Zeus sputtered. "I made him powerful once more! He was free! Isn't that what he wanted?"

Athene did not blink. "Father, there is another matter which demands our immediate attention."

"Oh? And what is that?"

"Kronos did not merely renounce his title as keeper of the Elysian Fields. He also cast out all its residents."

There was a slight pause, as Zeus' eyes grew wider and wider.

"All… all the heroes who dwell there? Our own heroes, and those of other pantheons as well? They're gone?"

"Scattered across a hundred planes of existence. Left to wander, with no one to bring them back to their paradise. And that, itself, will have repercussions we cannot dream of. What will the Greek people say, to learn that Heracles walks among them once again? What will they do?"

"The delicate balance of Order in the Universe will be shattered."

"With all that might entail."

Zeus sighed and crossed to the opposite window. Leaning out, he gazed out across the hazy landscape.

"We'll have to find them," he said. "Even if it means a hundred years of searching. Call a meeting of the Olympians; the matter must be discussed immediately. And I want no god of any other land to hear about this. They would be furious, to discover that their heroes, whom they had graciously placed under our care, had vanished."

"I'm afraid it's too late for that, father," a third voice stated.

Another Olympian had floated up to meet with Zeus. He wore a winged cap and winged sandals, and carried a long staff around which two snakes were entwined. He appeared as a young man, and though his face was usually bright, it was dark at this moment.

"Hermes, my son!" Zeus said happily. "It pleases me to see you once more. But what is this you mean? Do the other gods already know?"

"More than that," Hermes replied, softly and worriedly. "They're already here."

-----

Three gods stood outside a gate.

The gate led up to the realm at the top of Mount Olympus. It was made of pure diamond, and touching it sent a slight ripple of sound throughout its structure, a reverbation of murmur almost too low to be percieved by the ear.

It is no surprise that there were three gods: in divine diplomacy, the pantheons almost always send a trio of gods as ambassadors instead of just one. Three is, after all, one of the most mystical numbers in existence. All mythologies see this, and respect it.

The gods were tall, and pale of skin. They were dressed in flowing Asian robes. The oldest of them, whose hair was pure white, wore a stern expression as he gazed upon his companions. The other two were young, a brother and a sister. The brother's face looked chiseled out of granite; the sister frowned disapprovingly and fanned herself with a golden fan.

There was silence for some time; then the brother spoke.

"Your pardon, father, is humbly begged; but this one in his ignorance fails to recognize the sense in paying a visit to the Olympian gods at this time."

"Be silent, Susano," Izanagi the father ordered.

"Father, it is true that the heroes of our legends have been lost, but we can recover them for ourselves. The Olympian gods have failed us – have failed you. One must simply break ties with a pantheon such as that, not entrust our heroes once again in their hands."

"Susano, stop protesting!" the young woman snapped.

"You have not been addressed, Amaterasu," Susano hissed.

"Enough." Both siblings fell silent. "Susano, your ideas mean nothing to me. The Shinto gods have a pact with the Olympian gods. It has existed for centuries, and it will not cease to exist now. We will ensure that the heroes are placed in better hands this time, but they will still be Olympian hands. Tradition will be upheld."

"But now – thanks to their Kronos – tradition has already been lost. The heroes that lived in the Elysian Fields do so no longer."

"No, my son. For now, they do not live there. But they will be returned. And the old ways will resume."

Izanagi leaned close to his son. "And you will remain silent for this meeting. You have dishonored the Shinto pantheon enough. I will _not _have you debase us before the Olympian gods as well."

Susano responded by turning away. Anyone who could have glanced at him would have seen what appeared to be the epitome of patience and calm, but a thousand black storms were raging within Susano's soul at that moment.

Then, three more figures appeared from out of the woods behind them. One was tall, fair, and golden-haired, with a noble face. One, who hobbled beside him and held his hand, was stooped and blind. And the third was slender and handsome, but wore a look of revulsion upon his face.

"Well-met, Izanagi," the golden-haired one said.

"Well-met also, young Baldur," Izanagi responded. "You have met my son and daughter, of course?"

"Of course; it is a pleasure to see you both again," Baldur smiled. Then he turned and whispered to the blind god beside him: "We have arrived at the gate. Izanagi, Amaterasu and Susano of the Shinto pantheon are here as well." Then he straightened up and addressed the other gods. "This is Hodur, my brother. And, of course, you all know my blood-uncle Loki."

"Of course," Izanagi replied. It was not evident, in the tone of his voice, whether he was pleased or displeased to see Loki once more. "Are you here to speak for the Norse pantheon?"

The fire-god Loki nodded his head. "Yeah. You're here representing Nippon, eh? Looks like both our parties came for the same reason, though."

"Yes," agreed Baldur. "The Elysian Fields."

And as he spoke these words, five more gods emerged.

Two of them were large, muscular, and commanding in their presence. One was dressed in white, while the other wore black. The third, in contrast, was a young woman who appeared tiny by comparison; her hair was red, and a crow sat on her shoulder.

"I am Bel—"

"I am Tar—"

The two large gods began to introduce themselves in unison, and when they had noticed this, they gave each other murderous looks. The woman stepped between them with a slightly exasperated expression and announced, "I am the Lady Morrigan, goddess of war and death. These two are Belenus of the sun and Taranis of storms. We are here to stand for the Celtic gods."

"More like the Lady and I are. That damn Taranis couldn't stand for a dead rat in a broken wheelbarrow!"

"A wheelbarrow? You little pile of dung, you don't even know how to PUSH a wheelbarrow!"

The two of them continued to trade insults as the Lady Morrigan clapped her head to her forehead. "Please, just ignore them. They're equally idiotic."

"You have my sympathies, madam," Izanagi said.

"And what of you two? You have not spoken," added Baldur, addressing the other two gods. Both were ruby-red in hue, but there their similarities ended. The one looked like a man, with four arms instead of two, and armed with many different weapons including a thunderbolt. He gazed upon the gods with solemn detachment. The other was a short, squat humanoid with an elephant's head, who was laughing merrily at the proceedings. His laugh sounded like the ringing of a gong.

"I am Indra," the first god declared, "and this is Ganesha. We are here to represent the Hindu pantheon."

"Surely, then, there should be three of you?" the Lady Morrigan wanted to know.

"True; we gods do things by threes," Ganesha chuckled. "But a third Hindu god has already gotten involved in these affairs."

Everyone present wondered what his words meant, but before anyone could inquire further, more gods came forward from the woods. Dozens of gods, representing all the old pantheons, from the Mesopotamians to the Bantus to the Egyptians to the Koreans to the Aztecs. They were innumerable.

And after they had all arrived from below, a final god arrived from above: the gate slowly swung open, and Hermes stood at the entrance.

"Great Zeus has been informed of your arrival, and wishes to welcome you to Mount Olympus. Please, enter. We know why you are here, and a meeting will be held upon this matter forthwith."


	4. The Sun in Her Hands

**Chapter Four – The Sun in Her Hands**

Sigurd awoke to find himself on something pale, gray, damp, and soft. Water was gently lapping his prone body.

As his mind struggled to collect itself, he registered that it must be cold (the water off the coast of his homeland had always been frigid) but he immediately realized otherwise. This water was tepid – no, warm.

He tried to comprehend the substance he was lying on. It felt almost like dirt, but dirt was rougher and drier. Still lying on the ground, he scooped up a little of this terrain and poured it back onto the earth. Much of it remained on his fingers.

He decided it must be mud, but as he thought about it, that didn't seem right. Mud ought to be darker, and didn't have little shiny specks in it like this did.

Dismissing the ground from his mind, Sigurd slowly pulled himself to his feet.

He was surprised to find three other figures lying unconscious a small distance away from him.

One of the figures was lying face-down, but Sigurd recognized him immediately by the lion pelt slung over his back and the club that lay not far from his hand. It was Heracles, one of the heroes that had lived with Sigurd in the…

In the Elysian Fields.

And then Sigurd remembered everything that had happened.

He remembered how Kronos had grown huge and flown up into the sky, how the Old One had announced his resignation. He remembered the huge gash in the sky, and the convulsing blackness behind it. And most of all, he remembered how he had been drawn up through the air and into that vast rip.

After that, Sigurd could remember no more.

He looked at the other two figures, and was not surprised to see that they, too, had been dwelling in Elysium. One of them he was glad to recognize as Cuchulainn, of Celtic origin, and among Sigurd's closest friends. Cuchulainn was dressed in attire that resembled a mixture of a king's stately robes and a knight's forbidding armor. He had red hair and a short beard.

Sigurd could not claim to know the other hero on the ground particularly well, but he could at least associate the man's face with a name. It was Yoshitsune, whose mortal life had been spent in Japan. Yoshitsune was a cordial soul who appeared peaceful and calm, but Sigurd had heard some of the old Japanese tales during the centuries he had spent in the Elysian Fields, and he knew that Yoshitsune had killed the entire Taira clan in order to avenge his father, who had been murdered by one of them. This one was unpredictable, Sigurd knew that much.

Sigurd tried to walk across the near-dirt and found it difficult. The near-dirt was not as solid as regular soil, and sank slightly under his feet as he walked. Still, he approached the three unconscious heroes and gently shook Cuchulainn's shoulder.

"Cuchulainn?"

The Celtic awoke immediately, giving a startled shout. This roused the other two, who looked as alarmed as Cuchulainn did.

Cuchulainn stared wildly at the creature that had waked him, but upon realizing that it was his old friend Sigurd, he calmed down, and his breathing became softer.

The first thing he asked was "Where are we?"

"I don't—" Sigurd began, but Heracles, who had stood up, cut him off.

"We're on the shore, that much I know."

"Then we're not in my homeland," Sigurd remarked. "There, the shoreline is covered with rocks. But here, there's only this peculiar gray sodden substance."

Heracles gave him an incredulous look, then laughed. "This is sand! Don't tell me you don't know what _sand _is."

"Come off it," Cuchulainn glared. "Where do you think he's from, Egypt?" He turned back to Sigurd. "I'm sorry I shouted like that. It's just… I had this horrible nightmare when I was sleeping. There was a huge snake, and it had me wrapped in its coils, and it kept squeezing, and I could feel the air escaping me."

Yoshitsune spoke for the first time.

"Sir, that is a strange occurrence indeed. For I too have had that nightmare."

"Me too," said Heracles, scratching his head. "Doesn't sound like a coincidence. What about you, Sigurd?"

"I don't know," Sigurd admitted. "I don't think I dreamed at all. Or if I did, I forgot it."

There was silence for a few moments, and Sigurd wondered what serpentine images were being reflected in the mind's eyes of the others.

Finally, Yoshitsune said, "There is still the question that Cuchulainn raised: that of where we are."

Sigurd looked to the east and west. The sand continued to run in either direction for as far as he could see. Behind them stood a long forest, and some distance to the west there was a small gap in the forest and a dirt path running through it.

"We should probably—"

"The best thing for us to do," Heracles announced, interrupting Sigurd for the second time, "would be to see where that path leads." He strode off towards the path. Yoshitsune allowed his eyebrows to furrow in disapproval before following. Cuchulainn and Sigurd exchanged a glance, and followed as well.

Sigurd found it a comfort to walk on solid dirt again. The sand was bearable, rather nice in fact, but it reminded him too forcibly that he was in unfamilar terrain.

As they walked along the path, the sun dipped lower in the sky, and soon it had vanished, leaving only darkness. To keep certain that they were close by, they tried to maintain conversation. However, the subject was generally whether any of them had any idea what had happened to all the hundreds of other heroes who had lived in the Elysian Fields, and since none of them did, the talk usually died quickly.

They had been walking for some time when a dull thud and a small cry of surprise broke the silence. Cuchulainn, who had been leaning to one side of the path, had walked into something along its edge.

"It's made of wood," he informed the others, who couldn't see it well. "I think it's a sign of some sort." He ran his hands over the surface. "Yes – there are words carved into the wood! But they're not in any language I understand."

(One matter that should be explained at this point is language. None of the heroes understood English; nor, however, were they speaking in Greek, Norse, Japanese or Celtic. They were speaking a different language, which combined elements from all the ancient tongues. It is the divine language used by all inhabitants of the Elysian Fields, and, in fact, the gods use it as well when addressing those of other cultures.)

"Perhaps they're not letters at all, but drawings," Yoshitsune suggested.

"No," said Heracles, gesturing to one that looked like the tip of an arrow pointing down. "That one looks like our Greek _nu._"

"Yes, but it's clear this isn't in Greek!" Cuchulainn said impatiently.

But the sign was driven from their minds when they saw a circle of light dancing around the corner up ahead. It flew up and down the treetrunks, crossed the ground, up the treetrunks again.

"What'sthat?" Sigurd wondered.

"Let's go find out!" Heracles cried, and he began to rush forward. But Yoshitsune stopped him.

"Restrain yourself," he warned in a hushed voice. "We would do better to stay where we are. I sense that this is the work of fairies."

"I agree with him," Cuchulainn added. "I've heard tales of the Fair Folk using light-tricks to lure in travelers at night."

Heracles reluctantly turned back. "Sissies."

But they didn't have to wait long. The circle came closer and closer to where they stood, until a woman walked around the corner.

She was quite young, and dressed in the strangest clothing any of them had ever seen. She wore a shirt of some flimsy material that left her arms completely bare, and instead of a dress, she wore a strange bluish-gray piece that didn't even come all the way down to her knees. The most peculiar thing about her was not her clothing, however. It was that she held the sun in her hands.

No, Sigurd decided, that was an illusion. But the small yellow cylinder she was holding provided a light much stronger than any candle he had ever seen.

When she noticed them, she came to a halt. In fact she looked ready to run in the opposite direction, until Cuchulainn spoke.

"Fair lady, can you tell me where we are?"

The woman looked incredulous. "You're kidding me, right?"

(At this point the matter of language must be revisited. The woman understood this divine language in the back of her head – all mortals do – and when the heroes spoke, she thought she was hearing English. As well, when she spoke, the heroes all thought she was speaking in the divine language.)

The heroes looked confused, and Sigurd said, "We're not kidding you. We simply want to know where we are."

The woman rolled her eyes – an action none of them understood – but then answered. "You're in Oregon. Right near Reedsport. That answer your question?"

"Oregon? Reedsport?" Yoshitsune whispered to the others. "These names are unfamiliar to me."

"Never mind, she's answered our question," Cuchulainn whispered back, and then he addressed the woman. "Thank you. We shall be on our way."

"Hold it!" the woman cried.

All the men stared at her.

"Why the hell are you dressed up like that?"

Their eyes shifted from her to their own clothing, and they thought she must have misspoken. It felt perfectly reasonable for each of them to be dressed the way they were.

"Beg pardon," Heracles said in an uncharacteristically cautious way, "but we were going to ask the same of you."

"What are you _talking _about?" she cried. "This is America. This is the twenty-first century. You look like something out of medieval Europe or – I don't know, Asia!"

"America?" Cuchulainn asked.

"Medieval?" Heracles wondered.

"What do you mean by 'the twenty-first century'?" Sigurd asked.

The woman heaved a huge sigh. "You know, the twenty-first century. 2000 A.D. Sheesh, it's not that hard to figure out."

"What do the letters 'A.D.' mean?"

"You know, like A.D. and B.C. Oh Christ, I can't be having this idiot conversation! Just tell me, where do you get off dressing up like that?"

They were spared having to answer her when a second person walked around the corner some ways ahead of them.

His skin was pale blue, and his face was of almost feminine beauty. A long strip of crimson cloth with gold tassels was draped around his torso, and he wore elegant, flowing leggings of a honey-yellow hue. A cache of arrows was slung over his shoulder, and he held a golden bow as tall as himself in his left hand. He wore an elaborate golden headdress engraved with rubies and emeralds. A U-shaped mark adorned his forehead.

"Ah, my dear friends!" he cried as he rushed to them. When he had approached, he addressed the woman. "Please excuse the strange fashions of my friends. They are among the guests to my costume party. You're invited too, surely, if you wish; although I'll warrant you'd need something more eccentric to wear."

As far as eccentric went, the woman looked as though she had quite a few things to say on the subject regarding the newcomer's dress sense – not to mention a word or two about body-painting – but she instead mumbled "No thanks" and walked back around the corner a little more quickly than etiquette demanded.

"Well, that's gotten rid of her," the newcomer grinned. "I see by your outfits that you, too, were living in the Elysian Fields only a short time ago. Although I don't believe we've met, have we? I'm Rama."

"I'm Sigurd."

"I'm Cuchulainn."

"My name is Yoshitsune."

"Heracles, here."

"I've heard tales of you all," Rama smiled. "You've done fabulous deeds."

"Not as fabulous as you," Yoshitsune commented. "I visited India several times during my life, and the Hinds were always telling stories about you and your exploits in the _Ramayana_."

"A trifle, a trifle," Rama said, waving his hand dismissively. "Now: I asked a few people, and I got a few words about where we are: Reedsport, and Oregon."

"So did we," Heracles said a little too quickly. He appeared jealous of the attention Rama was getting.

"But that doesn't tell us anything," Cuchulainn added. "All I know is, we awoke near the ocean's edge."

"Really? I woke up in the forest," Rama said. "Did you have any idea of _which _ocean it was? Sigurd, yours are a seafaring folk. Did you recognize it?"

"Not in the least," Sigurd had to admit.

"I hate to say it, but I'm pretty sure we're lost," said Cuchulainn.

Having settled this, they agreed to get some sleep and make plans for being rescued in the morning. But it was a long time before any of them could get to sleep, and even then, three of them were plagued with images of a great, vicious serpent.


	5. Concerning the Lost

**Chapter Five – Concerning the Lost**

They filed in, and were ushered to the hall Aerodromos.

Zeus was sitting at the head of the table, in the largest and grandest chair. To either side of him sat his wife Hera, looking vilely at the goddesses entering the room, and his mother Rheia, who seemed on the verge of tears.

Athene sat in silence, and her brother Ares grumpily muttered about the various deities that had invaded his home. Poseidon, Zeus' brother and lord of the earth, had risen from the land to Olympus in order to discuss the matter at hand. A little farther off sat Hestia, who carefully avoided looking at any of the gods who were taking their places at their table; and next to her sat Aphrodite, who in stark contrast was blowing kisses at them all. On Aphrodite's other side sat her husband Hephaistos, the crippled forge-god. Across the table, Apollo and Artemis gently bickered and tried to make themselves look respectable; and finally, Hebe, the goddess of youth, had joined this discussion: she fiddled with a golden goblet absently and said nothing, though she was usually extremely talkative.

And then the visiting gods took their places.

Once Izanagi had taken his seat two chairs away from Hephaistos, Susano and Amaterasu sat down in those two chairs. Aphrodite gave Amaterasu a dirty glance as she sat down – the goddess of love inherently despised women – but Amaterasu, knowing how to properly enter a conversation with Aphrodite, complimented her on her hair, and soon the two were chatting happily.

Loki grabbed a seat opposite the lovely Aphrodite and leaned back in his chair, occasionally trying to catch the goddess' eye. Baldur carefully guided Hodur to a chair, and then sat next to him, telling him about the various gods and goddesses that were present. The blind god sat attentively and smiled in rueful sympathy when Baldur described the fire-god Hephaistos.

It was the custom for the gods to sit near others in their pantheon, but Belenos and Taranis chose to take their places extremely far from each other, sitting as close to the opposite ends of the long table as they could politely muster; and once they had settled, they spent their time throwing venomous glances at each other. Annoyed, the Morrigan sat near the middle.

Indra solemnly sat and looked ahead into space, but Ganesha gazed around at the whole company, nodding and smiling at them all like they were his close friends. In truth he had never met most of them, and the majority of the rest were simply acquaintances, but Ganesha didn't care. He did, however, spare a few longing glances at his plate, which like everyone's was quite empty.

Nearby sat the Sioux gods, who had arrived and taken their places in silence. Skan, the oldest of them, was dressed in a thick cloak that seemed to have no consistent color: it looked either pale blue or light gray, but could change at any moment. Haokah, the horned god, bore a tall drum, and tears were trickling down his face – he cried when he was content, and laughed when he was unhappy. The third Sioux god, Cetan, took the shape of a hawk, and perched on Skan's shoulder, bright yellow eyes darting quickly around the room. Occasionally his feathers would ruffle, just slightly.

Another bird was present in the hallway: the eagle who belonged to the Hittite god Rundas. A hare clutched in each talon, the eagle flew silently overhead, while his master sat below, muttering something to the rest of the Hittite contingent. Kazal, who personified mountains and the weather, was using one hand to stroke his beard in wonder at the company, while keeping the other carefully on his great club. Next to him sat Mother Kamrusepa, lady of magic, listened intently to Rundas' words, occasionally glancing around at the table.

The party from the jungles of the Ngbandi sat at the far end of the table. Chief among them, Khonvoum, looked pensive as he absently toyed with a small ball of light (his sigil, a bow that appeared to be shaped out of a rainbow but that in truth had been created out of two long snakes, was slung over the back of his chair). Mugasa the sky god brooded, looking like he would prefer to be anywhere but here – his reputation for standoffishness was well-known among the immortals, although they only seemed to like him more for it. Tore, the third Ngbandi god, never took a human shape: he always manifested himself as either a storm or a leopard. At this time, he chose to become a leopard, and he lay strewn across his chair, his obvious contentment the perfect contrast for Mugasa's discomfort.

The Aztec ambassadors were among the most conspicuous guests at the table, wearing brightly-colored adornments replete with jewels and plumes. Tezcatlipoca's mouth was curled upward in a slight smirk as he surveyed the hall, holding his trademark artifacts: a mirror from which smoke was rising in a gentle, easy spiral. Tecciztecatl, one of the oldest gods in the Aztec pantheon, was stooped over the table, bearing on his back a large white seashell that was gently glowing with moonshine. Mixcoatl, their younger companion, had a black-painted face and held two objects: a sceptre whose tip was the head of a snake, and a bundle of spears.

When all the gods – and there must have been hundreds – had sat down, the talk that had filled the air now began to gradually die down. Expectant glances were tossed at the head of the table, where the discussion would begin in the hands of the Greek hosts. After a few moments, Zeus rose from his throne and addressed the table.

"My friends," he said, "I'm sure I need not describe to you the tragic crisis that has befallen us. By your own methods, each of you has found out about this horrible event, and each of you has, rightly, come to us to register your complaints. I understand there will be many. I am prepared to listen to them all. We of Olympus are at fault, and especially myself: your blame should rest upon me.

"But beyond simply talking about the problem, we must take advantage of this opportunity to come together, and form our plans for how to resolve it. Whatever methods must be used to reclaim the heroes that have been lost, the Olympian gods will stand by them. If anyone would like to voice their ideas for the heroes' retrieval, our ears are open."

Loki stood up. "Well, I think the obvious thing would be to form a search party."

"If we could have all the gods here searching across the planes of existence for the lost, then the matter could be behind us in days," agreed Tore.

"Impossible," said Kazal. "The gods have duties, cosmic duties, without which the universe cannot be upheld. What else separates us from the insignificant mortals?"

"Immortality?" Baldur guessed.

"No, Kazal's point is valid," said Mother Kamrusepa. "I'm sure I speak for everyone when I say that we dearly wish to see our heroes in safety once more, but much as we would like to, it's not possible to simply give up everything and go off in search of them."

"Belenus and Taranis could. Those two are good for nothing to begin with," said the Lady Morrigan, glancing pointedly at her companions.

"Heh, she's right about you at least," Taranis chuckled.

"No, she isn't! She's wrong about me and right about you!" Belenus shot back.

"Well, she's right about you but she's wrong about me!"

"Well, she's wrong about you and right about me!"

"But that means you're good for nothing and I'm good for something," Taranis pointed out.

"Sure you're good for something. Good for getting punched in the face!" shouted Belenus.

"Silence!" Zeus cried. "I will entertain no arguments. We're here to discuss things peacefully, not start a war with each other!"

"Shut up, Zeus. _You're _the one who got us into this mess in the first place!" Belenus yelled.

Immediately the hall fell silent.

Belenus sank in his seat and covered his mouth, ashamed at his outburst; but it wasn't he who was the target of the grimaces that were now filling the room.

"You know, he has a point," said Loki. "Just where do you get off trying to play like you're the leader when it's your idiotic decisions that got the heroes lost?"

"I agree," Tezcatlipoca added. "Zeus and the Olympians have lost their standing among the gods because of this incident. I see no reason to tag along behind them like a mindless hound."

"Hold your tongue, thunderer!" Cetan the hawk-god screeched, sweeping circles over Zeus. "Your opinion's not wanted here, so there!"

"This is why I hate get-togethers," Mugasa muttered to Khonvoum.

"Please, my friends! We are all to blame," Ganesha cried, trying to restore peace. But this only made the gods angrier.

"Oh yeah? Why shouldn't we hold _you_ responsible, Ganesha?"

"Yeah, you're probably in cahoots with Zeus!"

"What are these worlds coming to? Now the pantheons are conspiring against us? Plotting on how to get rid of our heroes forever?"

"Shut up! It's _our _heroes that have been lost!"

"Heroes? Those puny things you call heroes are worthless! So they slew a snake or two in their time, who gives a damn? Our heroes, now: they were real champions."

"I beseech you, calm down!" Zeus pleaded. "Everyone has lost heroes because of this incident. We will all work together to retrieve them, and none will work harder than we of Olympus."

"With all due respect," said Susano, rising from his chair for the first time, "it is difficult to place trust in our hosts when they have already failed once to guard those whom we have placed in their care."

_"Silence, _Susano," Izanagi hissed, his words dripping with venom. "Speak one more word against the Olympian gods and you will suffer my full wrath. I make no special exceptions for my son. If I must recover our hosts' and our own honor by destroying you, I won't hesitate to do so. Your arrogance has pushed me too far."

Susano, cheeks flushed with anger, did not look at his father.

But the Morrigan spoke up. "Beg pardon, Izanagi, but I think your son's right. Are we to let the Olympians handle these affairs again? They messed things up pretty badly the first time."

"Yeah. Leave the Greek gods out," Loki declared. "We don't need their incompe-tence. They'll only get in our way."

"For that I'll take your head off, worm!" Ares shouted, standing up with a clatter of golden armor. It was clear he would suit his action to his word in an instant.

"Stay your sword, Ares," Skan advised. "Your pantheon is already in a precarious situation. You wouldn't want to add murder to the list of Olympian faults that is being addressed today."

"I don't care!" Ares roared. "The next of you to insult us will be dead before he finishes his sentence. I've had enough of you – always screaming at Zeus and the rest of us – just as if we _wanted _Kronos to abdicate! Do you think that's true?"

He was answered by an outburst of angry voices.

"Why shouldn't it be true, you Olympians don't seem to have much compassion for mortals anyway!"

"Yeah. What about Poseidon, eh? Remember how he made Odysseus' life hell for twenty years? Not quite a hero's best friend, is he?"

"Admit it. You were plotting this all along, weren't you, Zeus? You and your old man Kronos had it all planned out!"

_"Stop it!"_

Everyone's eyes turned to the source of this shrill cry, and found that it was Hebe. She had stood up, her face a mask of tears.

"What are you saying? What are you doing? How can you think we _wanted _this to happen? My own husband is out there, my love, my darling ray of hope – Herakles is out there, and you're accusing me and my family of _throwing him out? _You're brutes, all of you – savage, evil brutes, no better than Kronos! And I hate you, _I hate you! _I hate you all! Just find your stupid mortals and get off this mountain, go, go away, I hate you all!"

She threw her golden goblet to the floor and flew out of the room, sobbing.

No one spoke. Each of the gods was imagining what it was like for her: having no idea where her husband could be, having no idea if he was still alive – and having little hope of ever finding those answers. They lowered their eyes, faces dark, and those who had been standing gently sank into their seats. Haokah, who laughed when he was sad and cried when he was happy, could not suppress a giggle.

"Well," said Zeus presently, "well, I believe we should… discuss the matter of how we are to retrieve them."

"I agree," Indra said promptly, and Izanagi nodded.

"But first… I'd like to apologize, Zeus, and all of you Olympians. We lost our tempers. We meant nothing." So spoke Mother Kamrusepa, and the rest of the gods voiced their agreement. Even Susano muttered a quick "Sorry" before turning back to his own thoughts.

"And we apologize in turn," said Athene, glancing at Ares. The war-god said nothing, but his eyes no longer flickered furiously towards Loki every few seconds.

"Now, to revisit Kazal's original point, that of cosmic duties. He is correct – not all of us, not even most of us, can afford to search for the lost and abandon our regular duties. However, there's a rather simple way to gather a sizeable search party of gods who can carry on the chase without contradicting what they were created to do. Lords and ladies, I wonder: are there any gods of the hunt present?"

Six hands were raised.

Mixcoatl, the black-faced Aztec god, was the first. The horned Haokah had raised his hand, as had Rundas with his eagle. From the Ngbandi came two hunt-gods: Khonvoum and Tore. Artemis, who like most of the Greek gods hadn't said a word since the discussion had begun, was the last.

"Do you six, then, volunteer to travel across the dimensions looking for these heroes?" Zeus asked.

They nodded resolutely, except for Tore. "Lord Zeus, I cannot allow my companion Khonvoum to embark on this journey."

"What?" Khonvoum shouted.

"Master, you have far too many responsibilities beyond simply being a god of the hunt. Each of us does, but you most of all. You cannot forsake your obligations."

"But those don't matter!" Khonvoum argued. "This crisis is far more important than those."

"Listen to him, Khonvoum," Mugasa muttered. "He's right. You and I have more to do than he does. We need to let him go."

Khonvoum looked as though he was ready to argue further, but finally sighed in resignation. "Very well," he said. "Go, Tore. And don't do anything I wouldn't."

"Since when has that ever been a problem?" Tore chuckled, but he grew serious when he saw the pained look on Khonvoum's face. The older god really did want to join the hunt, it was clear.

Meanwhile Apollo was pleading with Zeus.

"Can't I come?" he asked. "Artemis would just mess everything up, you know her. I could really be a help to the team."

"No, my son," Zeus replied. "Your place is here. Be patient."

"But—" Apollo, too, felt a deep desire to aid the heroes.

"You're just not a hunt-god, little brother," Artemis gloated.

"Little brother? We're _twins!" _Apollo shouted back.

Ignoring his son's complaints, Zeus addressed the search party. "I shall stay in contact with you, Artemis; and Tezcatlipoca, Khonvoum, Kazal and Skan will keep touch with the rest of you. As such, you are free to split up, but I advise you to remain at least within the bounds of one world together at all times.

"You have the blessing of all of us," he added, allowing a smile to touch his lips.

"We won't fail you, lords and ladies," Mixcoatl replied, addressing the whole table.

And with only that, the five hunt-gods departed.

There was silence for a few moments, and then Zeus spoke once more. "My friends, I know you want to see this matter resolved. Therefore, I extend my hospitality. You are all welcome to stay on at Mount Olympus until every last hero has been returned. May I propose a toast, now, in honor of those brave souls who have just now left our midst?"


	6. Gilgamesh on the River

**Chapter Six – Gilgamesh on the River**

_For whom have I labored?_

_For whom have I journeyed?_

_For whom have I suffered?_

_I have gained absolutely nothing for myself,_

_I have only profited the snake, the ground lion!_

- from The Epic of Gilgamesh, Tablet 11

-

"_Father!"_

The weeping goddess had flown up the stone staircase. Her deep-brown hair, normally elegant and lovely, was whipping untidily about her face. Her robes, so often stunning in their perfection, were dirty and ripped in places. Every feature of her appearance had portrayed absolute, shocked, disbelieving trauma.

Her father had stepped through the doorway at the top of the staircase. He had long gray hair, and a dark face into which deep wrinkles had long since been carved by time. But there was still an air of divine magnificence about his person, for old age had only caused him to grow taller and more imposing, and his golden catlike eyes were full of spirit.

He had had only enough time to utter "Ish—" when his daughter had rushed into his arms, sobbing into his shoulder. She was making muffled, agonized sounds.

"Ishtar," her father had gently said, "what is the matter?"

Ishtar had merely continued to moan and cry.

Then, with a slight tone of amusement, Anu (for this was her father's name) had added, "Is this about a boy?"

"I wish you wouldn't call them boys," Ishtar had whined. "They're men. Just as I'm a woman now."

"I know, I know," Anu had said, not unkindly. "But I take it you are admitting that this is, indeed, about a man. Is it… Gilgamesh?"

"He called me a shoe that bites its wearer's foot!"

"I see."

"And a half-door that keeps out neither the heat nor the cold!"

"Anything else?"

Ishtar had looked up at her father with mournful eyes. "He called me many things, father. And he mentioned all my old lovers. And what happened to them all."

"What _you _did to them, you mean?"

Shock had trickled slowly across the young goddess' face. "You don't… you don't mean…"

"I do mean it. You must face reality, Ishtar. You have dealt a cruel punishment upon any whom you called your true love. You have acted in a manner unbecoming for a goddess."

Ishtar's weeping had temporarily strengthened; then she had collected herself and spoken once more. "He mentioned Ishullanu."

-

These memories, and nothing else.

Only his recollections of that long-gone age, those days of battle and adventure, ran through Gilgamesh's mind as he wandered aimlessly through the vast meadows.

He had been cast away. He had been left to roam.

As he ambled, he perceived dimly that the flowers and grasses of the meadow appeared to be dying around him.

-

"I see," Anu had murmured. "Ishullanu… I seem to recall that you had forbidden mortals to speak of Ishullanu after your failed love affair with him?

"Yes—yes! Father, Gilgamesh has slighted me beyond pardon. I beg of you, grant me the Bull of Heaven, that I may exact my revenge upon that villainous man!"

"Oh?" Anu had said, eyebrows raising. "And why exactly should I see fit to give you the Bull?"

Ishtar's face had darkened. "If you do not fulfill my request, I shall destroy the barrier between the earth and Netherworld. And the dead will walk once more among the living."

Anu had been silent for a long moment. He had been surprised that his own daughter should dare to threaten him; yet he had known in his heart that Ishtar was a rash soul, and there was no doubt that she would indeed carry out her warning if provoked too far. And the release of the dead souls back into the mortal plane would, indeed, have ramifications more numerous than Anu could handle. "You win," he had said easily. "But I cannot do as you have asked without certain drawbacks. Were I to give you the Bull of Heaven, this land Uruk over which we preside would face a seven-year famine. Is that what you wish?"

Ishtar had simply waved her hand in dismissal. "The people of Uruk have had especially bountiful crops for years, under my care." For she stood for fertility as much as love. "They have stored extra supplies of vegetables and grain. They will not starve, even if the land fails to give back to them for a few years."

Anu had been silent for another long moment, then he had spoken. "Very well. The Bull of Heaven is yours to command."

"Thank you, father," Ishtar had said sweetly. "Now Gilgamesh will be slaughtered. And justice will be upheld once more."

-

Gilgamesh looked back to the plains he had already crossed. No, they were still as rich with life as ever. And yet the flowers at his feet were beginning to wilt and wither.

He looked ahead. The stretch of meadow before him was in an even worse state than where he was standing now. He considered walking back, but dismissed that idea. He had no goals, no destination, now that Kronos had turned him and the other heroes away from the Elysian Fields. But he still saw no sense in turning back. Might as well push forward.

_For all the good it will do me._

The grass became grayer, as he walked. The flowers wilted further.

_So hungry._

_So tired._

And, above all:

_So thirsty._

It had been – hours? Hours, since he had had a drink of water? No. Days. He had journeyed, and thirsted, for days.

But now—

Gilgamesh was sure his eyes deceived him.

It was a river.

A long river, stretching as far to the east and to the west as the eye could see.

Gilgamesh ran to it, not caring that the grass under his feet was growing viler and more decayed with each step, only that he had found water at least.

He was standing on the shoreline. The rocks scattered along this gray dirt were sharp, and he thought that he may have cut his foot (in his state Gilgamesh found it difficult to determine pain in such a far-away section of his body). But he paid this sen-sation no heed. He waded in, stooped down, and scooped up great handfuls of the water, pouring them upon his face and down his throat.

And what did he care that the water was pitch-black even within his cupped hands? And what did he care that, had he been more aware of his surroundings, he would have noticed that it was the foulest, most bitter water he had ever tasted? No. It was water, and to Gilgamesh's tongue that was the sweetest liquid that he had ever drunk.

-

Business as usual on the River Styx.

The pallid, lonesome form of Charon upon his ferry slipped slowly through the mist, bringing a deceased soul to her place in Tartarus.

"So how'd it go for you?" Charon asked in his raspy voice. The dead woman's blank eyes widened.

"I am guilty of adultery," she whispered. "I was unfaithful to my husband. I slept with beggars and priests, soldiers and diplomats. I could not be sated with my mate alone, and so I have been cast down into the darker realms, where I shall be punished for eternity…"

"Yes, yes, I know," Charon muttered. He'd heard it all before. There were hun-dreds of reasons why one might be sent to Tartarus, but Charon had ferried millions of souls in his time, and frankly, no one was going to surprise him any more. Adultery. He could name four thousand people, off the top of his head, who had told him sob stories about their messy – and sinful – love lives. He could name more, if he gave the matter some thought.

No more surprises. That was the curse of working this job. No more surprises.

"That's it," he said as the ferry came to shore. "One obolus."

The dead woman reached into her mouth, retrieved an obolus (the Greeks buried corpses with an obolus placed under the tongue, for just this purpose), and handed it to the ferryman. Then, without a word, she stepped onto the shore and wandered down to meet her everlasting castigation.

After carefully wiping the obolus clean of corpse's spittle, Charon pocketed it and sailed back to the opposite shore. What a thankless job. No more surprises.

Although he did confess himself surprised when he found a dead body floating face-down in the river alongside him.

Charon pulled the body onto the ferry. Strange. This poor fellow should be in the form of a ghost, not a corpse. And what had he been doing in the River Styx anyway? Going for a swim?

It was all very odd, but Charon didn't waste too much time thinking about it. He had a job to do, after all. He promptly began rowing back to the opposite shore.

-

Presently the corpse uttered a tiny moan. This was indeed a peculiar event. It occurred to Charon that the man might not be dead after all. Still, he had most certainly drowned in the river, so how could he not be dead?

Charon rowed on.

After a short while, he became aware that the corpse was moving, attempting to get up. But his arm slipped and he fell back to the bottom of the boat, hitting his head in the bargain. Charon wondered what it must be like, a dead man hitting his head. Would he feel it?

The ferryman searched for something to say, something that would not be taken as a direct address to the corpse but might still illicit some sort of reaction from it.

"There certainly is a lot of mist," he mumbled.

He was successful. The corpse whispered a single word, in a choked voice. "Mist."

"Yes: mist. Lots of it. Tell me, who are you?"

"Wanted… water…" the corpse said. "Drank… I… fell… in…"

"So you weren't just practicing your butterfly stroke, then."

The corpse did not laugh. Moron. Probably didn't even know what a butterfly stroke was.

"Anyway, I ask again: who are you?"

"Gilgamesh…"

Charon was surprised. For the second time in the past hour. This was indeed an unnatural day.

But, he reflected, he should have guessed it was Gilgamesh. Or something along those lines, anyway. Gilgamesh was two-thirds god and only one-third human; it was natural that being submerged in the waters of the River Styx would not entirely drown him as it would a mortal.

"How'd you get here? I thought your kind was in the Elysian Fields."

"Kronos… sent us away…"

Charon was, for the third time, surprised.

"He just sent you away? What was he thinking?"

"Don't… ask me. He just… He just…"

Gilgamesh fell silent.

Charon rowed on.

"Did I ever… tell you… about the Bull…"

"What?"

"The Bull of… Heaven?"

Charon frowned. "Never heard of him."

"Ishtar… sent it down… from the skies…" Gilgamesh wheezed, coughed up pitch-black water, and continued. "When it breathed… it caused earthquakes…"

"Yeah?" Charon had no idea why the other man was bringing this up, but he decided to humor him. "So what happened?"

"Enkidu and I killed it…" Gilgamesh replied. "Enkidu grasped it… by the tail… and I… I thrust a sword between its eyes…"

"That's great," Charon sighed. "Look, what am I going to do with you? You're clearly not dead, but…"

Before he could finish his question, he received an answer.

"Charon!"

The ferryman looked to the shore, where a deer stood. Charon took a moment to reflect upon the fact that he had never seen a talking deer before, but then the deer morphed into a human-shaped figure. His nose and the space around his eyes were painted black, and a small wooden rod pierced his nostrils. He wore an ornate bejeweled bronze headdress. In one hand, he carried a sceptre with a snake's head at the tip. In the other hand, he carried a bundle of spears.

"Who are you?" Charon wanted to know.

"I am Mixcoatl, of the Aztec gods," was the reply. "I am the god of warfare, and of the hunt. And I am one of the deities appointed to seek out the lost heroes who once dwelled in the Elysian Fields."

"Oh." Charon glanced down at Gilgamesh's prone form. "I suppose you'll be wanting to take him with you, then."

"Yes. I wish to return Gilgamesh to his former home."

"All right." Charon rowed the ferry back to the shore, where Mixcoatl carried Gilgamesh onto land and helped him to his feet.

"Thank you, Charon of the River Styx," Mixcoatl said. "Now, Gilgamesh, I shall open a portal to—"

"Hold on!"

The Aztec god stared at the ferryman.

"I charge an obolus for a ride in my boat, sir. Gilgamesh needs to pay me."  
"Hm. I have no obolus with which to pay you on Gilgamesh's behalf, but… would this do instead?" And Mixcoatl casually flicked his sceptre. Instantly, a ruby materialized in Charon's hands.

"Uh… wow. Sure. That's great."

And Charon was still admiring the ruby's flawless perfection as Mixcoatl opened a portal, helped Gilgamesh through it, and was gone.


End file.
